


You're No Longer Alone

by charlock221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody's sad at one point, Friendship, Gen, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, John gets sad, Sherlock gets sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlock221/pseuds/charlock221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You really need to drop the attitude, Sherlock, because your best friend has been seriously injured and it is your fault. And I swear, if you don’t help him over the next few days so help me God, they will not find your body.” By the time he had finished speaking Lestrade was inches away from the detective, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Am I understood?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my God it's been so long since I've posted anything and I'm so happy I've finally started doing it! It's a work in progress and I hope to update every week but I apologise in advance if any chapters are late!
> 
> Enjoy!

“I don’t understand why you need me to come along, Sherlock. I’ve already missed the beginning of this case.” John said as he tried to keep up with Sherlock’s quick steps, the pair marching along the street.

“Then I’ll explain it to you.” Sherlock responded. “Margaret Bailey was found dead in her home three days ago with a bullet through her forehead. Death was instantaneous.”

“So why has Greg called you?” the doctor asked. “Seems pretty mundane, God rest her soul.”

“Locked room.” Was the only answer he was given.

“Ah, your favourite.” he smiled. After a beat of silence he asked another question. “How come we’re going back to the crime scene?”

“Lestrade has finally asked me to check that the forensics team has not missed anything.” Sherlock said with a sniff. “Of course, he should have asked me as soon as the body was found but he seemed to be under the impression that his team was more than capable.”

“Leave him alone.” John chided as they separated to make way for a woman with a pram. “From what I’ve read in the papers, this lady was a politician, right? So Greg’s boss and the press are probably putting a load of pressure on him right now to find out what happened.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, he merely kept his eyes ahead as they walked, looking off into the distance. He kept his gaze on one fixed point long enough for John to notice, and the doctor tried to see what it was Sherlock was focusing on.

“What are you looking at?” he asked. Sherlock pointed slightly to the left, above a row of houses.

"There appears to be smoke where Margaret Bailey’s residence is.” he said, and now John could clearly see the plumes of black smoke tinting the sky, rising in a gentle swirl. “Or should I say ‘was’.” the detective corrected with a small smirk.

“Not funny.” John said as they began to run to the crime scene. They turned the corner onto Margaret Bailey’s driveway to see a number of fire officers darting in and out of the house, which was no longer on fire but thick, heavy smoke was pouring from every crevice.

“God.” John muttered at the sight of the remains of what was a large manor house, but most of it had crumbled and only a bit of the structure was still upright.

“Now how am I supposed to look for evidence?” Sherlock asked, and John couldn’t work out if he was actually as distressed as he sounded.

“Forget your evidence, Sherlock.” John said, spotting Lestrade a few metres away and walking over, ignoring the affronted look on the detective’s face.

Lestrade had heard the pair talking and faced John with a grim expression as he neared, arms crossed. “Twenty minutes earlier and you would have had your evidence.” he said to Sherlock, who didn’t respond.

“What happened?” the doctor asked.

“Got a call about fifteen minutes ago saying a fire had broken out at a victim’s house. We’re currently trying to figure out what had started it but so far there’s been no luck.” he said.

“You suspect that Bailey had a lover, yes?” Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes on the smoking house.

Lestrade frowned at him. “Yes, but there are rather more pressing matters at the minute.” he replied. “Like who set her house on fire.”

“If she was in a relationship with someone it’s likely she had some sort of memorabilia to remind herself of it.” the detective continued.      

“If she did it probably got destroyed in the fire.” John said.

“Not necessarily.” Sherlock countered. “If, for example, the item was metal, depending on the fire’s temperature it might not have melted.”

"Does this really matter right now? And anyway, what item would she have that reminds her of her lover that’s made of metal?” John asked.

“Jewellery.” Sherlock stated. “Gold melts at around 1000°C and silver melts at approximately 960°C, so it could be possible that the fire didn’t melt it.”

“Unlikely.” John countered.

“But possible.” Sherlock responded.

“Gentlemen, can we please focus our concentration on trying to work out who started this fire that might or might not have melted your jewellery, and why they did?” Greg interrupted.

But John was watching Sherlock suspiciously, who was still scanning the house avidly. “No.” he said.

“No?” Lestrade echoed, eyebrows raised.

John turned to him. “Not ‘no’ to you, Greg, sorry. No to _him_.” He gestured to Sherlock with his thumb, and the detective frowned at him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know what you’re thinking, though.” John replied. “And the answer is no, you cannot go into the remains and look for some sort of memorabilia.”

“But those idiots will probably pick it up and discard it as unimportant!” Sherlock whined, gesturing to the fire and police officers poking about the rubble.

“Inspector Lestrade,” A fire officer walked over to the trio, scowling at Sherlock. “My idiots currently believe the fire was deliberate, most probably set alight with the use of petrol.”

“Thank you, Chief.” Lestrade replied.

“And can I just add, under no circumstances are you to go near the house, Mr Holmes.” the fire-fighter said. “Some of the structure has been weakened and is liable to collapse, something which we’re expecting to happen during the next half hour, so stay away.”

“If you think I am unable to tell when parts of a house are about to collapse, then you are sorely mistaken.” Sherlock responded icily, disgruntled at being talked down to.

“Not to mention that if you do decide to stupidly go in, smoke inhalation could cause you to pass out, the surfaces could give you first degree burns and Mrs Hudson will _undoubtedly_ bash you over the head with your skull.” John added. Sherlock merely glared at him.

“Anyway, so far there have been no reported casualties.” the chief fire-fighter continued. Lestrade nodded at the information, having been already told that by one of his officers.

“Any witnesses?” John asked, looking from Lestrade to Chief Fire Officer Rodger Johnson, as he later introduced himself as. “Someone who might have seen the house set alight?”

“None so far.” Lestrade answered, and Johnson nodded in agreement.

“Don’t suppose the suspect left their shoe or something as they ran off.” John muttered.

Johnson shook his head. “We’ve already questioned Cinderella; she claims she’s innocent. I’m not so sure.”

John smiled at the comment and waited for Sherlock’s derogatory remark... only it never came. He turned and was not entirely surprised when he was faced with thin air. He spun to face the wreckage of the house and was certain that, through the curtain of thick smoke, he could see Sherlock’s sodding coat.

“That bloody, stupid arse.” John cursed, and began to run over to the remains, ignoring the shouts of his name behind him. Fire-fighters and police officers watched dubiously as John ran past them, unsure whether they should stop him or wait for orders to do so.

“Give me your torch!” John shouted to a particularly young officer, who thrust her torch into John’s waiting hand as he sped by. The doctor knew the smoke would cause little light to filter through the wreckage, and he wanted to spend as little time as possible getting the stupid detective out.

The majority of the left side of the house was still intact, whilst almost all of the right side had crumbled to become rubble and debris. John couldn’t see any sign of Sherlock in the rubble so he surmised he must be in the left side, _where the ceiling could collapse any minute_ , the doctor thought grimly.

He slowed as he neared the beginning of the wreckage, and he kept an eye on where his feet were as he stepped through a hole in the exterior. Switching on the torch, he strained for any noise that might indicate Sherlock was around. Behind him, he could hear Lestrade ordering people not to follow him in, and he felt a small pang of guilt at leaving the DI forced to do nothing but wait for the two of them to return, it being too dangerous now for anyone to come after them.

John coughed as smoke invaded his senses and he squinted in the dim light, the torch providing barely any relief. He placed his sleeve over his mouth, hoping that whilst looking for the detective he didn’t inhale too much of the toxic smoke.

"Sherlock!” he called, his voice muffled. “Where the hell are you?!”

Surprisingly enough, John didn’t receive an answer, but he thought he could hear Sherlock moving about nearby.

As he carefully stepped over loose bits of concrete and wood, John tried valiantly not to focus on the sound of groaning structures above him, signalling that something somewhere was going to collapse soon now that the fire had weakened it.

“Sherlock!” he shouted again, and when he was met with silence once more he softened his voice. “I won’t be mad, just come back with me.”

There was a deep chuckle to his left, and he turned to focus his torchlight on Sherlock’s smirking face. The detective was making his way over to John, and the doctor did his best not to slap the smirk off of him.

“What the hell are you thinking?” John scolded.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to be mad.” Sherlock responded mildly.

“I was lying.” the doctor growled. “This has got to be one of the stupidest things you’ve ever done.”

“The evidence is paramount, John, surely you can understand that. I need to recover it before the rest of this house collapses and possibly destroys it.”

“You’ve got about thirty seconds, then.” John said sardonically. “Anyway, you don’t even know what you’re looking for!” he added, his temper rising the longer they remained there.

“I’m almost one hundred percent certain it’s a piece of jewellery.” the detective replied, looking about the debris as if the evidence might jump out at him.

“ _Almost_.” John emphasised. “’Almost’ isn’t enough to persuade me, now move before–”

He was cut off by an almighty groan directly above them, and John looked to see a large, dirtied pillar nearby suddenly collapse, having split almost cleanly in half. Seconds after, without anything within the surrounding area to support it, parts of the ceiling began to crash to the floor around the pair.

“MOVE!” John shouted, shoving Sherlock out of the way and in a direction where there were less concrete chunks colliding with the ground. Sherlock stumbled forward and ran as quickly as he could towards the edge of the house, not needing to look for a door as there were plenty of gaps in the wall to use as an exit.

Then, without warning, a giant chunk of ceiling crashed directly in front of Sherlock and John, causing settled dust and debris to jump up around them and clog their already suffering senses. John felt a stinging sensation in his eyes and his hands flew to his face to protect himself from further harm. He tried to blink the dust away but his eyes refuse to open, watering greatly and continuing to sting painfully.

John felt Sherlock grip his wrist and yank him in a different direction and he stumbled clumsily after him, tripping over bits of rubble and cursing at himself repeatedly. All around him he could hear the tremendous noise of the large house crumbling to its foundations, and he hoped that Lestrade had kept everyone at a safe distance.

Finally, John felt fresh air on his face and his feet shuffled against smooth ground. He collapsed to his knees and he heard a thud next to him, presumably Sherlock.

“Stay facing away, John, while everything settles.” Sherlock warned, and John decided that keeping his eyes closed would also help.

“You okay?” he rasped.

“Fine.” the detective responded with a cough.

They remained in silence for a few moments whilst they waited for everything to settle, and when John could hear the shouts of Lestrade and Chief Johnson looking for them, he surmised that they were as safe as they could be. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked a couple of times as Sherlock got to his feet.

“We’re at the back of the house so there’s no need to call for them; they’ll come trotting over sooner or later.” Sherlock said, brushing the dust off himself.

“Sherlock...” John murmured, frowning slightly.

“Maybe we should leave now so I can escape Lestrade’s predictably boring tirade.”

“Sherlock?” the doctor’s voice took on a questioning tone as he held his hands out in front of him.

“Hmm?” Sherlock knelt down in front of his friend and gripped his hands, looking for any serious injuries but aside from a few cuts and scrapes, he seemed unharmed. “What is it?”

John looked up and into his eyes... only he was staring to the left of the detective’s face. In a quiet, controlled voice, he said, “I can’t see.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments & kudos, I'm glad you're all enjoying it! x

“What?” Sherlock asked, stunned.

John swallowed as his eyes darted about almost desperately. “I can’t see anything. I can’t see you.” As he spoke, Sherlock noticed that John was gripping the detective’s sleeves, most likely in an attempt to ground himself.

“Alright.” he said. “Just don’t – don’t panic.” He looked around but there was no one nearby, and although he could hear Lestrade shouting their names, the DI didn’t know exactly where they were.

Sherlock looked back at John, who was taking deep breaths and had his head tilted towards the ground. He removed the doctor’s grip from one of his sleeves and squeezed his hand. “John, there’s an ambulance around the corner, at the beginning of the driveway. I need to go and get some paramedics; I promise I’ll only be a second–”

“Don’t!” John said anxiously, then cleared his throat and said in a calmer tone, “Please don’t.”

Sherlock sighed, having predicted his reaction. He let go of his hand and tried to tug his other sleeve out of the doctor’s grasp, but John wouldn’t let go.

“John, I have to get help.” he implored.

“Use your phone. Call Greg or something and tell him to bring the paramedics. Please, Sherlock, I–” He broke off, clearly not wanting to express his fear, but Sherlock could easily read the frightened expression on his face. The detective knew that were the positions reversed, he would be terrified at the prospect of not being able to see again.

Resolving to stay with John, Sherlock was about to dig in his pocket for his phone when he heard Lestrade’s shouts closer than before.

“Over here!” the detective called whilst one of John’s hands found his and gripped it tightly. Moments later Lestrade rounded the corner of the smouldering wreckage and jogged over to the pair kneeling next to it.

“Did you get what you bloody wanted?!” Lestrade shouted at Sherlock, anger crossing his face as he jogged over to them. “Risking your sodding life for a piece of jewellery! Of all the idiotic, stupid things you’ve done in the past, this one really takes the...” he trailed off as he realised that Sherlock wasn’t reacting to him. Not that Sherlock didn’t react to his other lectures, but this time he didn’t look bored or uninterested. This time he looked concerned and worried, though it was hidden by a shoddy mask of indifference.

“What’s happened?” he asked in a quieter tone, panting from running to them as his eyes raking over the pair for any serious injuries, but he could see none apart from shallow scrapes and cuts. John had his head bowed and was holding Sherlock’s hand quite tightly and the detective himself had his free hand on John’s arm.

“Sherlock?” he asked, “Tell me.”

The detective turned to look at him. “Could you fetch some paramedics, please?” he said calmly. “John can’t see.”

“John can’t – what?” Lestrade looked to John who was smiling grimly.

“Can’t see a thing.” he murmured.

“Oh God.” The DI said to himself, spinning and sprinting as fast as he could back to what used to be the front of the house, where he knew fire officers, police officers and paramedics alike were gathered.

“I need paramedics!” he shouted as loudly as possible, running into view of everyone. “Paramedics with me now!” As he turned back towards Sherlock and John he spotted two medics rushing after him carrying a large first aid box. The three, with Lestrade ahead, ran to where the detective and doctor were waiting, and Sherlock looked up as they approached. The pair had gotten to their feet whilst Lestrade was gone, and now John took a minute step towards the brunette, most likely apprehensive of the thundering footsteps coming closer.

Sherlock led John forward, completely silent as the paramedics took charge of him; one shining a small torch in his eyes whilst another started to clean the soot and dried blood off his hands. Eventually they began to walk him back to the ambulance, talking to him quietly and reassuring him. John remained stoic, his lips pressed tightly together as he was led away. Lestrade and Sherlock exchanged a look before they brought up the rear on the journey back to the ambulance.

* * *

 

“What did the doctors say?” Lestrade asked, entering John’s hospital room and addressing the ex-soldier sitting on the bed. Sherlock was perched in a chair next to him, remaining silent and twiddling with his fingers.

John shrugged, his gaze directed at the wall opposite him. “Only what I already thought. Particles got into my eyes and damaged the corneas, and it’s going to take around 48 to 72 hours for my vision to return.”

“So it’s temporary.” Lestrade checked, breathing a deep sigh of relief.

“Yeah, it’s temporary. I’ve been prescribed eye drops to prevent infection, too.” The doctor’s voice remained perfectly stable as he spoke, not a hint of emotion in what he said.

“Are you okay?” the DI asked, looking from John to Sherlock, who was now tapping on his phone.

“Yes, I’m fine.” John said, smiling in what Lestrade assumed was meant to be reassurance. “No lasting damage, so why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, y’know, back at the house you seemed pretty shaken–”

“I was caught off guard, that’s all.” John interrupted, trying to locate Lestrade and look at him directly but missing by a couple of inches. “I’m alright now, so no need to worry.”

“Okay, great.” Greg said, flashing a smile before realising John couldn’t see it. He cleared his throat. “Er, Sherlock, step out here a sec.” He watched Sherlock pause on his phone, before sighing, pocketing it, and standing up.  He held the door open as the detective brushed past him, and he glanced back at John, who was now staring down at his lap.

“Back in a mo, John.” he called, before closing the door and facing Sherlock.

“What were you doing on your phone?” he asked in a cool tone.

Sherlock frowned at him. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

“Right, yeah, it’s not, except that if whatever you’re doing is to do with Margaret Bailey’s murder, forget it. You’re off the case.”

“What?” Sherlock asked sharply, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Don’t make me repeat myself. You do as I say, and you are off the case.”

Sherlock stepped closer to him, a menacing glint in his eye. “You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I _need_ to solve this.” he growled.

“No you don’t. You don’t get to put this case over John. Not this time.” Lestrade argued. “You’re not on your own anymore, and you have to take responsibility for him.”

“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Lestrade.”

“Damn right I can. You really need to drop the attitude, Sherlock, because your best friend has been temporarily _blinded_ and it is your fault. And I swear, if you don’t help him over the next few days so help me God, they will not find your body.” By the time he had finished speaking Lestrade was inches away from the detective, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Am I understood?”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, before turning away and stepping back into John’s hospital room. With a sigh, Lestrade followed him in.

“Do you know when you’re going to be discharged?” he asked John, who nodded.

“They’re going to put bandages over my eyes in a bit and then I’m being kept in overnight, just for observation.” he said.

“Good, that means someone can take a look at you, Sherlock.” the DI replied, smiling at Sherlock’s glare.

“What?” John asked sharply. He looked to the right of his bed, where he guessed Sherlock to be. “Are your hurt?”

“I’m over here, John, on your left. And no, I am not hurt.” he said, directing another glare at Lestrade.

“My bad, John, it’s just scrapes and bruises.” the DI explained.

“Good,” John said, “The last thing Mrs Hudson needs are two cripples in her building, one of which would never stop complaining.”

“I don’t complain.” Sherlock retorted.

“You’re not a cripple.” Lestrade added.

The doctor smiled tightly. “Just a joke.”

“Just so long as you know.” Lestrade said, turning to go. “I’ve got to get back to the Yard but I’ll come by later, yeah?”

“Sure. See you then.” The doctor replied monotonously.

Lestrade walked to the door, shooting Sherlock a glare on his way out. Moments later he was gone.

Sherlock looked back at John, who was laying back in his bed and staring at the ceiling.

“Do you want me to call Sarah? Tell her you can’t come into work?”

John shrugged. “If you like.”

“I will.” The two lapsed into silence and the detective pulled out his phone. As far as he knew, nobody had recovered a piece of jewellery from the remains of the crime scene, but he couldn’t be sure that Lestrade wasn’t hiding it from him. He’d have to break into the evidence room at Scotland Yard later on and find out. And how _dare_ Lestrade take him off the case! He was the only one who could solve this locked room mystery and the DI decided he wasn’t needed? Just because he and John happened to be in a collapsing building and John got injured? It wasn’t _his_ fault the doctor was temporarily blind, he didn’t have to follow him in, after all.

 _No,_ he thought, _John’s not to blame for this, Lestrade is._ Of course, being taken off the case didn’t mean he wasn’t going to solve it. He certainly didn’t need Lestrade’s resources and he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. First, though, he had to find that piece of jewellery.

“You don’t have to stay here, Sherlock.” John commented, interrupting his thoughts.

“It’s fine.” the detective replied, and the two fell silent again.

While Sherlock sat in his chair, scheming, he couldn’t help a little niggling thought at the back of his mind making itself known. _What if it is my fault John’s injured?_ Certainly, John went into the building to fetch him, and if he had listened to the doctor and just left then they wouldn’t be in this scenario. Indeed, if he hadn’t gone looking for the evidence in the first place, again, John would not be here in hospital. And losing one’s vision – even if it was only temporary – was a devastating thing. Sherlock knew that if he had been blinded he would be overwhelmed, not to mention furious.

Furious… yes, he would be furious. Did that mean John blamed him? Was he angry at Sherlock for causing his temporary loss of sight? It would explain the cold and aloof manner he was displaying right now. He was dismissive of Lestrade earlier, and normally he made every effort to keep everyone happy, even if it was at his own expense. So yes, John was definitely angry at him.

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this new information. He focused on John, who was still staring at the ceiling and tapping his leg with his right hand.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Yep.” the doctor replied.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“S’up to you. There’s not much to do here and I imagine you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored.” Sherlock argued.

“You don’t have to lie.” John said in a strained voice. “Wouldn’t you rather be solving the case?”

Sherlock remembered Lestrade’s words. “Well yes, there’s nothing I’d rather do, but there have been complications."

John sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

The detective frowned. How did John know? Maybe Lestrade had mentioned it earlier when Sherlock was outside, on the phone to Mycroft. That blasted conversation in which his brother once again wanted to know unnecessary details about his life lasted long enough for Lestrade to hypothetically tell John that Sherlock was off the case. Even more reason to blame the DI for something the detective was well aware wasn’t his fault. Nevertheless, he was angry.

“Just go, Sherlock. I don’t want you to stay.”

And that was a dismissal if ever he heard one. Sherlock felt his heart sink and he was glad John could not see his face as he realised that his theory that the doctor was angry at him was true.

“Alright, then. I’ll come and pick you up tomorrow?”

“No, it’s fine. I can get a cab.” Another stab to his heart.

“Of course.” Sherlock replied, maintaining a nonchalant voice. “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow at Baker Street.” If he even wanted to come back to Baker Street. What if he was planning on moving out?

“Yeah, see you then.”

“Goodbye.” Sherlock moved towards the door, but before he left he took one final glance back. John had not, predictably, moved his gaze from the ceiling, and Sherlock was sure he could read discomfort on his face. Most likely wishing the detective would leave already. Well, he was not one to disappoint.

He changed his mind and stopped the door from slamming on his way out.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock froze as the lights were switched on.

“Why?” Greg Lestrade exhaled, covering his face with his hands.

Sherlock moved away from the desk drawer he had been searching through and straightened up.

“You’re back.” he stated, and then, “I know you moved the evidence.”

Lestrade sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “Yes, of course I moved the evidence, after I found you rummaging through the evidence room when I had explicitly told you not to. But that doesn’t give you the right to break into my flat!”

Sherlock looked about the bedroom he had been searching. “It’s a lovely flat.”

“That’s not going to work.” Lestrade huffed, pointing a finger at the detective. “I’ve had a long day at work and the last thing I wanted to come home to is you hiding in my bedroom, so I am going to give you three seconds to get out of my flat.”

“You’re not supposed to take evidence from Scotland Yard.”

“One.”

“You’ve lectured me about it plenty of times.”

“Two.”

“Double standards, Lestrade, that’s hardly appropriate as a detective inspec–”

“Three!” Lestrade took a threatening step towards Sherlock, and the detective took a quick step backwards.

“Alright, alright! I’m leaving. The jewellery clearly isn’t here anyway.” he sniffed, brushing past the DI in the doorway and continuing through the corridor. Lestrade sighed again and moved forward to collapse onto his bed, glad to be home and trying to forget the fact that a consulting detective had been in there moments before.

He cracked open one eye and spied his bedside table, the drawers open and socks strewn about on the floor. Then he frowned and looked about the rest of his bedroom. Clothes and items had been thrown haphazardly about the floor, clearly committed by Sherlock. His frown deepened. If his bedroom was messy and the rest of his flat was how he had left it…

“Oh my God, will you just go away!” Lestrade shouted, having turned on the lights to his living room. Sherlock was lying flat on the floor with one arm under the sofa, looking guiltily up at Lestrade. Slowly, he stood up.

“It doesn’t appear to be in here either.”

“Your sodding piece of jewellery is not in my home! Leave!” he exclaimed.

“Oh. I must have been mistaken.” Sherlock commented. “Never mind. No harm done.”

“My flat is a mess.”

“Still no harm done. Goodnight.” The detective spun and headed for the front door, but Lestrade sighed and stopped him.

“Wait a sec, Sherlock.”

The detective paused, hand outstretched towards the door handle.

“What’s going on?” the DI asked.

Sherlock turned back towards him with a small frown on his face. “I’ve just been searching your home for the evidence that isn’t here. We’ve just established that.” he replied, confused.

“Yeah, I know that,” Lestrade said, waving the issue away. “I meant, what’s going on with you? Normally, when I kick you off a case you grumble about it and have a bit of a strop but eventually you let it go. Why are you so determined this time?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The aim is to catch Margaret Bailey’s killer, if that’s what you are trying to get at.”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, that’s not what I’m getting at, and you're avoiding the subject.” he said. “How come you’re not at Baker Street with John? He got back earlier today, didn’t he?”

"Yes, he did, and he is with Mrs. Hudson at the moment.”

Lestrade smiled. “I’m sure he’s delighted with that.”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, surely he’d rather be with you than have Mrs Hudson fawning over him all the time, as much as her intentions are good.”

The detective shook his head. “No, he hates me.” he answered.

“That’s because you blinded him.” Lestrade replied sharply.

Sherlock visibly flinched and the DI felt a moment’s remorse before remembering that the younger man deserved it. It _was_ Sherlock’s fault that John lost his sight, he wasn’t exaggerating. Seeing Sherlock’s inability to argue against that fact meant that _Sherlock_ knew it too. The guilt he was feeling was probably crushing him.

Lestrade sighed. “OK, sit down.” he said, gesturing to his sofa. Surprisingly, Sherlock complied.

Lestrade looked down at his feet. “The next few days, or however long it takes for John to get his sight back, _has_ to be focused on him. You don’t get to take centre stage, Sherlock, not this time. Everybody relies heavily on their eyesight, and whenever someone loses it, it’s shattering. It would be like if you suddenly lost your deductive powers, you’d feel lost, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know what I’d do.” Sherlock muttered.

“Right, so you understand that John’s probably in shock right now. He’s going to push you away because that’s what he does. You’ve got to get past that and just be there for him. Even if it means hanging around Baker Street in case he needs something.”

There was silence for a long while before Sherlock spoke again. “Do you think he’ll move out?”

“No.” Lestrade said instantly.

Sherlock scoffed. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know John. Maybe any sane person would leave you because of this, but John’s not exactly sane, is he? I mean, he’s _still_ living with you. Anyone else would have run screaming from that flat years ago. You’ll both get through this. He’s not going to leave, trust me.”

“I’m impressed by your ability to both comfort me and insult me at the same time, Lestrade.” Sherlock commented dryly.

“It comes naturally when I’m dealing with you.” Lestrade retorted. “But what I’m trying to say is that if John is still at Baker Street, which he is, isn’t he?”

The younger man nodded.

“Then he has no plans to leave, otherwise he would have said something. He’s hardly one to reign in his anger, we’ve both seen the full extent of his wrath – you more than me, I would guess.”

Sherlock nodded in confirmation. “How long will he avoid me?” he asked in a small voice.

Lestrade shot him a look. “Don’t give me that, Sherlock. This is about him, remember? Not you. He’s only been back a day, I think he’s allowed to be a little distant, seeing as he’s just lost his eyesight. Like I said, it’s a defence mechanism, I doubt he’s pushing you away deliberately.”

“He told me to go away at the hospital. Said he didn’t want me to stay.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yeah, well, you can be annoying.”

“He didn’t want me to pick him up from the hospital, either. He was happy to get a cab.”

“Really?” the DI asked, surprised. “He’s blind, how was he going to do that?”

“Blind people are not invalids, Lestrade. I’m sure they can cope perfectly well on their own.”

“Yeah, I know that.” Lestrade replied. “But John isn’t used to being unable to see. He’ll struggle.”

“He’s stubborn.”

“He’s not stupid. He could have been hit by a car or something.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It still happened. He still told me to go away and I imagine he still caught a cab.”

"What, you don’t know?” Lestrade asked in disbelief. Sherlock shook his head. The DI sat down next to him and put his head in his hands, refraining from yelling at him. _He didn’t know because he was breaking into your flat._ Sherlock shuffled away, as if in anticipation of shouting and Lestrade rolled his eyes. “OK, well what else did he say?”

Sherlock considered. “He asked about the case. I told him there were complications and he said he knew that.”

Lestrade ignored the glare he was thrown. “You told him you were off the case? So does he know you’re breaking into my flat right now?”

“No, he doesn’t know. And it was you who told him I had been unjustly removed from it.”

Lestrade shook his head. “I didn’t say anything to him about it, Sherlock.”

The detective frowned. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why did he say he knew there were complications if neither of us told him anything?”

* * *

 

“I bought some more biscuits, dear, if you’re hungry. They’re just to your left.”

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson.”

“No worries, sweetie, I’ll be over here if you need me.”

John sighed from his position on the sofa. “Over where?” he asked quietly.

“Oh sorry, love.” Mrs Hudson responded, sounding worried. “I meant the kitchen, sorry.”

The doctor smiled timidly. “It’s fine.” He leant backwards until he felt the sofa against his back and let out another sigh. Getting back to Baker Street had been hell. He’d been unable to hail a cab because he couldn’t see, he didn’t know if there were any parked nearby because he couldn’t see, and he couldn’t ask anyone to flag one down because _he couldn’t see._ He had hated feeling useless as he realised he had no way of getting home, only to have the situation worsened by the arrival of Mycroft, who had offered to take him to Baker Street. Now, he sat grumpily on the sofa, with Mrs Hudson fluttering about and no sign of Sherlock.

“Do you want me to make you some dinner?” Mrs Hudson asked after a moment’s silence. John could hear her coming over and a moment later he felt her hand on his arm. He jumped at the sudden touch and stopped himself from shifting away.

“I have biscuits, Mrs Hudson.” he replied, trying to gauge where her face could be and smiling up at her.

“I’m over here, love.” she replied, a smile evident in her tone.

 _Over where?_ John thought to himself with growing frustration, but he didn’t ask out loud.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” she said, and John heard her footsteps receding. He sighed again.

“Don’t suppose you know where Sherlock went?” he asked.

“No, I don’t, and believe me he’ll be getting a right telling off when he gets back. Leaving you alone when you’re like this, I mean really, what was he thinking?” Mrs Hudson’s stern voice trailed off as she went into the kitchen, leaving John wallowing in his misery.

_When I’m like this. Useless. Inadequate. A cripple._

He thought back to yesterday, when Sherlock had helped him from the crime scene and he realised he had been blinded. The sheer, unadulterated panic he had felt had suffocated him. The thought that he might never see again had been unbearable, and it had only been Sherlock allowing him to cling to him that had kept him grounded. John hoped he would never feel panic like that again – it had almost been worse than being shot in Afghanistan.

But now Sherlock had gallivanted off somewhere; on the case, probably. John remembered his words in the hospital, the reference to his loss of sight. _Complications_ , he had called them, and John had tried not to react. He knew he’d be useless on cases while he recovered – he could hardly go running down alleyways or tackle criminals – but he had hoped he could be of _some_ use. Work as a sounding board, if nothing else.

Apparently, though, he couldn’t do anything. Sherlock had decided he would be of no help and had continued the case without him.

 _A week, at most_ , he thought to himself. A week to avoid Sherlock and let the detective get on with whatever he was doing. A week, and then everything would be back to normal.

“John, you haven’t touched your biscuits. Do you need me to hand them to you?”

 _A week_.


	4. Chapter 4

It was past midnight when Sherlock returned to Baker Street. He made sure to enter quietly as he knew Mrs Hudson would be asleep by now, and John probably was too. Lestrade had eventually kicked him out after moaning that he was tired, and so now Sherlock planned to get to his bedroom without waking anyone and think through his conversation with the DI.

Slowly, he climbed the stairs and opened the door to the flat, surprised to see a lamp was lit and John was asleep on the sofa. Or at least, Sherlock assumed he was asleep as the bandages covering the doctor’s face hid his eyes. Going by the slow breathing, though, he was sleeping.

Sherlock was debating whether to wake John up and direct him to his room or leave him there when suddenly he was hit from behind by something surprisingly soft. Before he could turn around to confront his intruder, his arm was grabbed and he was yanked out into the landing, the door closed after him.

His arm was released and he spun around, only to be faced with a very angry Mrs. Hudson. She hit him in the face three more times with a cushion.

“Sherlock Holmes I would smother you with this cushion if I wasn’t so fond of you, and even now I’m questioning if I am.” his landlady hissed.

Sherlock shrunk back into the door to avoid being hit again. “The police would know it was you.” he argued. “John wouldn’t smother me if he chose to murder me, he’d most likely shoot me with his gun.”

“I would happily go to prison.” Mrs Hudson growled. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, leaving John with me?”

“I didn’t know you disliked him so much.”

“You know that’s not true. But don’t you think he’d rather have you here than me?”

“Oh, you’re under the impression that _he_ doesn’t like _you_. Well, I can tell you that that is false.”

She hit him again with the cushion.

"That’s not what I’m getting at and you know it. You’re supposed to be his friend, but you’re being a bloody poor one at the moment!”

Sherlock straightened up, eyeing the cushion warily. “It’s not intentional.” he replied. “John hates me so I am ensuring he doesn’t have to see me often.”

The cushion collided with his face once more. “He _can’t_ see you!” she shrieked.

“So he doesn’t have to _hear_ me, then.” Sherlock responded. He ducked the next attack.

“He is _blind_ and you’re supposed to be here looking after him whether he hates you or not!

Sherlock remained still when the cushion swung at him again, taking the impact without commenting.

“Do you think he hates me?” he asked quietly.

Mrs Hudson’s expression changed from furious to maternal in a heartbeat. She stroked his arm soothingly.

“No, I don’t think John hates you.” she replied. “He might be angry, and that’s to be expected so just be there for him. Don't run off.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding and confirmation, and Mrs Hudson smiled. “Now go to bed,” she said, “before you do something else to make me use this.” She gave the cushion to Sherlock and bustled down the stairs to her own flat, leaving the detective out on the landing.

He turned and entered the living room and made his way over to John. The doctor was curled facing the back of the sofa, his legs drawn up with a slight frown on his face. Sherlock wondered if he was in pain. Then he realised he’d have known that if he’d stayed here instead of choosing to break into Lestrade’s home.

Squashing the tendrils of guilt beginning to form in his stomach, Sherlock moved forward and gently placed a hand on John. Immediately, though, John jumped and twisted away from Sherlock, turning onto his back.

“Wasgoinon?” he slurred, waving his hands in a way that Sherlock assumed was meant to protect himself.

“John, it’s me.” he said in a quiet voice. The doctor lowered his hands, but his back remained pressed to the sofa.

“Sherlock?” he asked, frowning and moving to rub his eyes.

“Yes, John. Come on, time for bed.” He reached forward and intercepted John’s hand but John quickly drew away.

"Don’t touch me.” he rushed out, sounding panicked. “Sorry,” he said, breathing heavily. “Just woken up.”

“I know, it’s alright. Let’s go.” John got to his feet without Sherlock’s aid and began to make his way to the stairs, jumping when the detective gripped his arm and steered him in a different direction.

“What’re you doin’?” John asked, still sounding tired. He tried to tug himself out of Sherlock’s hold but Sherlock wouldn’t relent.

“You’re sleeping in my room.” he replied. “You can’t sleep upstairs, it’s too dangerous.”

“It’s fine,” John retorted, trying harder to get away. Sherlock’s grip tightened and he stopped to face John.

“Don’t be stupid. You are unaccustomed to not having your sight so you could easily misjudge where the stairs are and fall down them.”

“Let go of me Sherlock.” John said, and the detective could hear the anxiousness in his voice. He complied and John stumbled back a few paces.

“I can manage on my own.” he argued.

“No you can’t.” the detective responded, “I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need your help, _I’m fine_.” John said through gritted teeth. He began to make his way to where he presumed the doorway was and promptly walked into Sherlock.

“You were about to walk into the wall.” the detective said, and John was sure he could hear exasperation in his tone. “That rather proves my point, don’t you think?”

John sighed and bowed his head. “Fine.” he huffed. “I’ll sleep in your room.” Sherlock gently gripped his arm again and began to steer him towards his bedroom. Though he felt John resist at first, the doctor didn’t say anything and let himself be led. Soon enough Sherlock stopped and he chose not to say anything when John bumped into his back.

“When did you get into your pyjamas?” he asked as John climbed into his bed, only having just noticed them.

“Mrs Hudson helped me earlier.” John mumbled in response.

“Oh.” Sherlock replied, quiet enough that it was unlikely John heard him. That probably should have been his job, he mused. He watched his friend shuffle around a bit until he rolled over, his back facing Sherlock.

“I’m trying to help.” the detective repeated quietly. “It’s just–”

“I know,” John sighed. “You don’t _do_ helping. That’s why I said you didn’t have to.”

“I _want_ to help.” he argued softly.

The two of them were silent for a while, Sherlock awkwardly standing at the side of his bed whilst John remained hidden from him.

Sherlock was beginning to think the doctor had fallen asleep when he muttered, “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

The younger man took that as his dismissal and turned to leave. “Night, John.”

* * *

The next morning found Sherlock in the kitchen attempting to fry some eggs. It had been proving trickier than expected, as evidenced by a few raw eggs smashed open on the tiles that he had dropped. He reminded himself to clean it up after breakfast.

Sherlock had spent the night before lying on the sofa trying to come up with some way to make John like him again. John obviously didn’t want to talk to him, but he had hoped an offering of breakfast may relax any tension between them. Even if he didn’t hate him, as Lestrade and Mrs Hudson seemed to think, John still appeared uncomfortable around him and, by the almost-argument last night, didn’t want him to help.

 _Maybe_ , he wondered as he flipped an egg, _if I involve John in the case it will take his mind off his dislike for me._ There was only one problem, though. Lestrade. The DI had moved the evidence and he had yet to find it. And, if Lestrade found out that he was pursuing the case again – even if John was with him – there was no doubt he’d be furious. This called for careful planning; he had to keep up the act of having not been taken off the case for John (who, apparently, didn’t actually know) whilst appearing to Lestrade that he had dropped it. This case didn’t seem too complicated that it couldn’t be solved from Baker Street, so he’d just have to call anyone he wanted to interview over here rather than visit them himself.

There was still the fact that he needed to see the evidence Lestrade had hidden. It had the potential of identifying Margaret Bailey’s killer and there was no chance that Lestrade or anyone at Scotland Yard would work it out. He’d have to sneak out, then, while John and Lestrade were preoccupied at some point.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway.

"There’s a lady downstairs come to see you. I can turn her away if you’re busy?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at the frying pan.

“It’s fine, send her up.” Hopefully this would be a simple case, something to entertain John while he recovered. He considered waking his friend but decided against it, reasoning that John probably wanted as little people to know he was blind as possible. Sherlock moved the eggs away from the hob and entered the living room, ready to meet his client.

The woman that entered was clearly upper class and looked to be in her sixties. Sherlock noted that her clothes were designer and she frequented a salon often to maintain her look. Botox helped with that, too, he saw. Her eyes took in the living room and Sherlock wondered whether she would publicly should her dissatisfaction, but she chose to hide it - though not well enough for the detective.

“Good morning,” he stated. “Would you like to take a seat, Mrs…?”

“Bailey.” she said in a confident tone, shaking the offered hand before perching on the end of John’s chair.

“Bailey?” Sherlock repeated as he sat down opposite her. “Mother of Margaret?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m here regarding her murder.”

“So I assumed.” Sherlock responded, marvelling at the coincidence that one of his potential interviewees had visited before he’d decided to call. “How can I help?”

“I want you to solve it.” she stated sternly, her green eyes staring him down.

 _Of course madam, was that all?_ “The police are looking into it.” Sherlock chose to say, though it pained him to do so. Like the police will solve it.

"The police are useless.” she snapped. “It’s been six days and no one has been caught.”

“Well perhaps you can offer me something that will make me catch them sooner. You have spoken to the police, I assume?”

“Of course I have.” Mrs Bailey replied, disbelief that Sherlock would ask such a thing apparent in her tone.

“Alright then. Was Margaret in a relationship with anyone?”

A stormy expression clouded Mrs Bailey’s face. “If you could call it that, yes.”

“Who with?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“Elizabeth Greenwold.” she replied, a sneer on her face.

“You objected to the relationship?” Sherlock asked, keeping his expression and tone neutral.  _Nothing like dealing with a homophobe first thing in the morning._

“It was an affair!” Mrs Bailey exclaimed. “Elizabeth is married with children and then decides to have her bit on the side? If it came into the public light, Margaret’s career would have been ruined! I could imagine the headlines, ‘Politicians engage in secretive relationship.’ With a woman, no less!”

 _Not a very imaginative headline. I’m sure the Daily Mail could come up with something more creative and offensive_. “Do you believe Mrs Greenwold is capable of murder?” he asked, already predicting the answer.

“Of course! That woman was hell-bent on her career and would have done anything to make sure nothing got in her way!”

“If that was the case, why would she engage in the relationship in the first place?” Sherlock argued.

Mrs Bailey floundered for a moment, her mouth opening and closing. “Well, it was obviously a ploy to ruin Margaret’s career.” she retorted. “My daughter would never willingly participate in such activities, she must have been blackmailed.”

“What do you mean by ‘such activities’?” Sherlock asked. He fought back a smile. John would have told him not to prod the snake.

"I think you know exactly what I mean, Mr. Holmes. Margaret was never one of those… of those…”

"Lesbians?”

“Precisely. That Elizabeth woman got into her head.”

Sherlock decided to let it go for now. The case was more important. “How long were they having an affair?”

“I haven’t the faintest, I didn’t want to know anything about those two.”

 _I don’t know why I asked_. “Alright, when did you first find out about it?”

“Around four months ago.” she answered. “I insisted that Margaret desist, but she wouldn’t listen to me, the silly girl.”

 _Well, now the silly girl’s dead._ “Thank you for your time, Mrs Bailey, I will contact you when the killer has been caught.” he said.

Mrs Bailey stood. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.” she replied. “At least you didn’t have as many questions as that detective inspector man. Good morning.” Sherlock let her leave without walking to the door. _God forbid the police do their job_. Not that Lestrade would have noted anything of importance. Still, he was inclined to feel sorry for the DI for having to deal with her.

Now that left the matter of Elizabeth Greenwold. Sherlock doubted she had been blackmailing Margaret, she had just as much to lose as her lover. It stood to reason, though, that the piece of evidence Lestrade was hiding was a potential gift that Mrs Greenwold gave Margaret. She could give more answers than the evidence itself, so Sherlock wouldn’t have to steal it after all.

He found his laptop and searched the address of Mrs Greenwold. Cosway Street. That was five minutes from here.  Sherlock glanced back at his bedroom, then looked at his laptop screen again. He’d be gone half an hour at the longest. It was 9.30 and John was still asleep. He’d heard no sounds coming from his bedroom so there was no sign of him waking up anytime soon. It was unlikely he’d wake up in the next half hour. Sherlock would only be gone for a little while. Mrs Hudson was downstairs if anything went drastically wrong. It’d be fine.

* * *

John woke up at 9.35 and experienced a brief moment of panic that he couldn’t see anything before he remembered why. He raised his hand and felt his bandages, confirming what he already knew. Still blind. He had to go back to the hospital tomorrow to see if his eyes were healing but until then the bandages had to stay on.

He sighed and lay still in Sherlock’s bed, thinking about the night before and how he hadn’t meant to be so grumpy with the detective. He’d realised earlier that day that he didn’t like being touched when he couldn’t see it was about to happen, so Sherlock had unnerved him before their conversation had even begun, resulting in snappy retorts from him. He didn’t really want Sherlock seeing him like this, either, so he had tried pushing him away; making things worse, apparently.

John supposed he ought to apologise, and he felt he owed Sherlock some sort of explanation. The detective was trying to be helpful, and John kept fighting him, which was a pretty rubbish way of treating a friend.

He got up and gingerly made his way to the door, surprised that Sherlock hadn’t heard him and come running to his aid. He succeeded in entering the kitchen without bumping into anything - something he was quite proud of - and stopped to listen for the detective.

“Sherlock?” he called. He waited but he couldn’t hear anything. He guided himself to the living room using the backs of the kitchen chairs, wondering if the younger man was asleep.

“Sherlock?” he asked again, but there was no reply. John decided that if Sherlock was asleep then he wouldn’t wake him and so he turned back to the kitchen, intent on getting a glass of water. His right hand found the kitchen counter and he made his way along it towards the cupboard that housed their glasses.

His left foot stepped in something with a _squelch_ and John pulled a face. He _really_ didn’t want to know what Sherlock had spilt on the floor, and he only hoped it wouldn’t erode his skin. He took another step forward and it landed with a second _squelch_. The floor was _covered_ in whatever it was, then. John either had to risk losing his feet to something toxic or go without a glass of water. He sighed and assessed how thirsty he was. He was quite thirsty and he’d been stood in this… _stuff_ for about a minute and he couldn’t hear any sizzling. His feet didn’t feel like they were boiling, either.

John chose to risk it and put his hand back on the counter to guide himself again.

He didn’t touch the counter, though. Instead, as soon as his hand touched the surface he heard sudden sizzling that he wasn't expecting and felt red-hot burning that caused him to instantly jerk his hand away from what was obviously a hob in use.

Stumbling away from the oven, cradling his hand, John suddenly lost his balance on the slippery floor and tumbled backwards.

The back of his head hit the edge of the kitchen table and he was unconscious before he met the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock could tell that Elizabeth Greenwold let him into her home with some trepidation. She was clearly nervous as she led him through the living room into the dining room.

“What’s this about?” she asked in a quiet voice. She tucked a strand of her ginger hair behind her ear and sat down on one of the chairs, gesturing to another one for Sherlock.

“I’m sure you know, Mrs Greenwold.” he replied. “You were a friend of Margaret Bailey, so I assume the police have already spoken to you.”

“Yes, they came by a few days ago.”

“And did you tell them the two of you were having an affair?”

Her expression froze but she quickly recovered, smiling timidly and frowning slightly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know–”

“There really is no point in lying to me.” Sherlock interrupted. “Just tell me the truth.”

Elizabeth sighed, looking down at her hands that were clasped in front of her on the table. “Yes, we were having an affair but I ended it a fortnight ago. And no, the police don’t know about it. At least, as far as I know.” she answered.

“Why did you end it?” Sherlock asked.

Elizabeth shrugged, looking regretful. “It was wrong. I’m married, I have children, I shouldn’t be sleeping with other people. Over the months we were seeing each other, the guilt built up more and more until I had to stop it.”

“You sound as though you didn’t want to end it.” the detective said, and Elizabeth nodded in response, tugging at the sleeves of her green blouse.

“I liked Margaret. She had a sort of calming effect on me when work got stressful or my husband was upsetting me.” She smiled slightly but it dropped soon enough. “I didn’t enjoy saying goodbye to her.”

“How did she take it?”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Not well.” she answered. “Shouted a bit, threw some things, made some nasty comments. I was expecting it though, so it didn’t really come as a complete shock.”

"Did you blackmail her?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Blackmail her?” Elizabeth repeated with surprise, looking up at Sherlock with a deeper frown. “Why on earth would I blackmail her? I’d have as much to lose at she would. More, in fact.” She gestured to the toys scattered on the floor. “I’d lose my family.”

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table and glanced at his watch. “Does your husband know?”

Elizabeth shook her head, rubbing her wrists. “I’ve been trying to sum up the courage to tell him.” she said. “Hasn’t happened yet.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a teacher.” Elizabeth answered. “Works at the high school nearby.”

“I see.” Sherlock commented, rising to his feet. “I have just one more question, Mrs Greenwold.” he said as Elizabeth got up too and they headed towards the front door. When they reached it, Sherlock turned to her. “Did you ever buy Margaret a gift? A piece of jewellery, perhaps?”

Elizabeth thought for a second. “I bought her presents, but I can’t recall any jewellery. It was mostly flowers, and chocolates, you know.” she replied with a small smile. “Margaret loved lilies and galaxy bars. Why do you ask?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Some jewellery was found that implied it was a gift from someone, and I am trying to work out who gave it to her. It will likely link me to the killer.”

"No, I don’t know of any jewellery, sorry.” she repeated. “Where is it now?”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s at my flat. It’ll have to be moved soon, though, Scotland Yard wants it back.”

Elizabeth was quiet for a few moments, but after sensing Sherlock staring at her, she said, “I see. Well, I’m sorry I can’t be of more use to you.”

The detective gave her one of his winning smiles, “Thank you for your time, Mrs Greenwold, I’ll be in touch if I think of any other questions.”

Elizabeth shook his outstretched hand. “Happy to help, Mr Holmes. I very much hope to see her killer behind bars.”

Sherlock turned to leave. “As do I. Goodbye, Mrs Greenwold.”

Out on the street, Sherlock checked his watch. He’d been gone twenty-five minutes. As he made his way back to Baker Street Sherlock mused on his conversation with Elizabeth Greenwold and wondered if she would call his bluff, because she had definitely been lying to him about the jewellery.

* * *

The traffic in central London that morning was horrendous, and Lestrade softly and repeatedly banged his head against the steering wheel of his car while he waited for the vehicles in front to move. He sighed for the hundredth time and turned on the radio, determined not to look at what was sat on the passenger seat next to him.

He had caved, after holding out for a mere two days, and now he was on his way to Baker Street to offer Sherlock the case file on Margaret Bailey’s murder. He was not happy with his decision, having thought that he’d be able to hold out for a little while longer, but then he’d thought that if Sherlock worked the case from his flat, he’d be able to multitask and keep an eye on John, too.

Lestrade arrived at Baker Street five minutes later and knocked once on the door. Mrs Hudson answered it and ushered him in with a bright smile, offering him tea and biscuits. He declined with a grin and headed up the stairs towards Sherlock and John’s flat.

“Sherlock?” he called, stepping into the living room. “John?” Nobody responded and he rolled his eyes, wondering where the detective was hiding.

“Sherlock? I’ve got the…” Lestrade trailed off as he turned towards the kitchen and saw what was clearly John on the floor behind the table.

“John? John!” he shouted, rushing over to the doctor and rolling him onto his back. John was unconscious and Lestrade shakily felt for a pulse. When he found one, he breathed a sigh of relief and dug in his pocket for his phone.

“John? Wake up mate, come on.” He shook John’s shoulder but he didn’t react, and while he was waiting for emergency services to pick up his gaze fell upon John’s left hand, where his palm and fingertips were a bright red and shining, clearly having been burnt. He glanced up towards the oven next to them and then looked at the hobs, swearing when he saw one of them was turned on. Switching it off, Lestrade returned his gaze back to John and gently turned his head to get a look at the bleeding wound at the back of it, the blood covering the floor around him.

“Hello, yes, I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street right away.” Lestrade said urgently when the operator answered. “My friend’s unconscious, I think he hit his head, and one of his hands has been badly burnt.” He listened as the operator told him an ambulance would be there soon, putting the phone down and keeping his hand on John’s shoulder, shaking him slightly every so often.

“Come on, John, wake up for me, please.” he muttered. “I really think it should be you that murders Sherlock, not me, eh?” Because it was definitely Sherlock’s fault. Mrs Hudson would have remembered to turn off the cooker, and stubborn as John may be, he wouldn’t be reckless enough to try cooking when he couldn’t see. He was guessing that Sherlock’s absence meant he had dashed off somewhere, completely forgetting about the scorching hot stove.

“Or maybe we could work together.” he said. “You hold him while I strangle him.”

“You coul’ c’ver it up.” he heard John mumble, and he glanced down to see the doctor grimacing in pain, one of his hands reaching for his bandages. Lestrade caught it and put it back down.

“Don’t touch, John.” he said gently. “And yes, I could cover it up. I’ve got enough friends on the force for the police to look the other way.”

John smiled tiredly and gripped Lestrade’s coat sleeve tightly. “Sh’lock’s not here, then?” he slurred, and Lestrade shook his head before realising John couldn’t see.

"No, he’s not.” he said with restrained anger. “And he’d better be glad he isn’t here right now.”

“Though’ he was ‘sleep.” John replied, ignoring Lestrade’s last comment. The DI could hear sirens nearby and he smiled in relief, patting John’s shoulder with the arm that wasn’t being held by the doctor.

“Ambulance will be here soon, just stay awake for a bit longer.” Being unable to see John’s eyes made it more difficult to check that he was awake, and so when he didn’t respond, Lestrade tried not to worry.

“Say something, John.” he said briskly.

“Mmph.” the doctor replied, and Lestrade felt it was good enough.

“Don’t go to sleep.” he reiterated.

“I won’,” John answered. “Will you fin’ Sh’lock?” he asked.

“I intend to.” Lestrade muttered just as Mrs Hudson came upstairs with a worried expression, followed by two paramedics.

* * *

When Sherlock returned to Baker Street from his outing he was mildly surprised Mrs Hudson wasn’t there to greet him, or - as he had been expecting - shout at him. He knew he shouldn’t have left John on his own but he was probably still asleep, and when he arrived upstairs and no sound met him, he presumed he was right. What he was not prepared to see, however, was Mycroft.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked his brother, who was sitting in his chair with one leg crossed over the other. Sherlock glanced towards the kitchen and saw that his bedroom door was still closed, so John hadn’t been woken by his brother’s entrance. “You can’t just let yourself in while John cannot see, if he was awake you could have given him a heart attack.” he growled.

“I did not give him a heart attack, though.” Mycroft responded. “He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“Lucky for him.” Sherlock muttered, moving to stand near the coffee table.

“How was your attempt at breakfast?” Mycroft asked out of the blue. “No accidents, I presume?”

“What? No, no accidents.” The detective looked over to where he had dropped a few eggs, and noted with some surprise that the floor had been cleaned. “You cleaned?” he asked with growing confusion.

Mycroft got to his feet and looked out of the window, his back to his brother. “In this suit?” he responded. “Wouldn’t you be more inclined to believe that it was your landlady, instead?”

"She’s not here, though.” Sherlock responded, beginning to become irritated. “That’s beside the point, anyway. What are you doing here?”

“Am I not allowed to drop in to check on my baby brother?” Mycroft asked, Sherlock could see a smirk in the elder Holmes’ reflection.

“No.” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Well maybe I wanted to see how John is faring.” he said, shrugging slightly and putting his hands in his pockets.

“He’s fine.” the detective snapped, tapping his foot impatiently.

“And you’re sure about that?” Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock stopped tapping his foot, trying to read Mycroft who clearly knew something he wasn’t letting on. He looked back towards his bedroom door and, with one final glance at his brother – who was watching something outside – made his way towards it. He tapped a few times and wasn’t particularly surprised to hear nobody answer, and so he quietly pushed it open and peered inside, mindful of waking John. His bed was empty, though, and John wasn’t in the room.

“John?” he asked dumbly, opening the door a little wider. Alarm began to grip him, and he vehemently pushed it aside. He turned and strode back towards Mycroft.

“Where is he?” he demanded but his brother didn’t face him.

“Dear me, Sherlock, you really aren’t good at this caring lark, are you?” he teased.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, a warning tone in his voice. “What’s going on? _What are you doing here?_ ”

Mycroft finally turned towards him. “You were correct, Sherlock.” he said. “I’m not here to check up on you or John.”

Then what–” Sherlock began, but he trailed off as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He was beyond confused, now, and he marched over to Mycroft and swept back the curtains, trying to see what his brother had been watching all this time. When he recognised the car parked outside the flat, he looked at his brother with dawning worry.

Mycroft was already watching him, and Sherlock was almost prepared to say he saw a bit of sympathy etched on his face. “I’m here to warn you, Sherlock.” he said gently, then thought for a minute. “And stall for time.” he added.

Sherlock had spun around, though, barely paying attention to what his brother was saying. His heart was beating rapidly, and – though he would later swear this was untrue – he was overcome by fear when he saw DI Lestrade enter the living room, his fists clenched and a look of pure fury on his face.

“What would you like written on your gravestone?” Mycroft queried lightly.


	6. Chapter 6

“Come with me. Right now.” Lestrade growled in a quiet tone.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but Lestrade held up his hand. “Don’t speak. I don’t want to hear a single thing from you.” The DI turned and marched back down the stairs and Sherlock followed him as quickly as possible before he was dragged out onto the street.

Lestrade had opened one of the back doors to his car and was sitting in the driver’s seat when Sherlock made it outside. He got in and closed the door behind him and Lestrade quickly pulled away from the kerb.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asked quietly. “Where’s John?”

“I’m taking you to him now.” Lestrade muttered in response. “And if you hadn’t have run off, you’d know what’s happened.”

Sherlock was about to reply but the glare that met him in the rear-view mirror silenced him.

“I don’t even know what to say to you.” the DI continued in a disappointed tone, gripping the wheel tightly. “I thought I had gotten through to you how important it was that you put John first but apparently I was wrong.”

Sherlock figured he wasn’t supposed to say anything during this journey so he looked out of the window as Lestrade spoke, feelings waves of shame lap over him.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t make John stay with me for the next few days.”

“He’d be miserable because he’d feel like a burden.” the detective replied honestly and automatically.

Lestrade didn’t respond right away, instead he focused on the road and tried to remain calm and collected.

"And what makes you think,” he said after a few moments, “John doesn’t feel like that with you?”

Sherlock looked away from the window and stared at the back of his head. “Why would he think that?” he asked in confusion. “John’s my best friend.”

“Your best friend?” Lestrade asked in a mock-surprised tone, “Well, let’s review the past few days and reflect on all the things you, as John’s best friend, have done to look after him, shall we? And then maybe we can try and figure out why he has this silly belief that he’s a burden to you.

“One,” he began, holding up a finger, “You ignore his request to stay away from a fragile building and put both of your lives in danger as a result. No, wait, that’s not something a best friend would do, let’s start again.

"One, after he has been blinded, you tell John that there have been complications in the case regarding Margaret Bailey’s murder–”

“Because you took me off it.” Sherlock interjected.

“You didn’t tell John that, though. So you’ve just told him that you’re no longer working the case because of complications and he’s left to assume that _he’s_ the complication, and so it’s because of him you don’t get to do what you’re passionate about.”

Sherlock frowned deeply, recognising the validity of what Lestrade was saying.

“Then you go home and leave John to find his own way back to Baker Street.”

“He wouldn’t let me take him home.” Sherlock argued, feeling that was a rather unfair point.

“You should have insisted.” the DI growled. “He’s blind, how much of a fight can he put up?”

Sherlock huffed in response, glaring out the window.

“After, you _leave him_ to come and break into my flat, and I’m willing to bet my right hand you didn’t tell him where you were going, did you?”

The silence he received was answer enough.

“I kick you out, you return to Baker Street and the next day you make breakfast. And that, _that_ is something a best friend does. Breakfast is a nice gesture. Breakfast shows you care. But then what happens?”

“I follow up on a lead–”

“ _You leave him again without telling him where you’re going_.” Lestrade thundered, and Sherlock swallowed nervously, briefly wondering if Lestrade was taking him somewhere to dispose of him.

“Maybe you thought you’d be out and back before John realised you were gone, but that’s not what happens.”

Sherlock slowly turned his head from the window to look at the driver’s seat in front of him, understanding beginning to dawn on him.

“John gets up and wanders about the flat on his own. Mrs Hudson is downstairs and was probably under the impression you were still with John, so why would she check in on him? You were cooking eggs, weren’t you?” he asked suddenly, his icy stare meeting Sherlock’s in the rear view mirror.

“I – yes–”

“You’re not great at cooking and that’s nothing to feel bad about, it’s the thought that counts, eh? In your sudden excitement, though, about this lead - which had better take me straight to Margaret Bailey’s killer, by the way - you forget a few things.

“Like cleaning up the spilled eggs.”

Sherlock felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of iced water over him, he was struggling to control his breathing as images of John slipping on the eggs and breaking various bones flooded his mind one after the other, and he was unable to stop them.

“Or turning off the cooker.”

That silenced his thoughts immediately and Sherlock could do nothing but stare in dawning fear at the hospital Lestrade had just pulled up at.

“It’s nothing fatal, he’ll be okay, but best friends don’t risk the lives of the ones they care about twice in three days, Sherlock.” the DI said in a subdued voice, staring down at his lap. “I don’t want to have to make a third trip to the hospital in the upcoming days because you can’t get your priorities straight, understand?”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock replied sincerely, and Lestrade sighed.

“Sorry isn’t always going to be enough.” he answered. “And you have to be prepared for the chance that it’s not enough for John. Now go in and see him before I change my mind and make you disappear instead.”

* * *

John was awake and resisting the urge to twiddle his thumbs when he heard the door to his hospital room open. He knew it wasn’t a nurse or doctor because they would have identified themselves as soon as they entered, but by the sound of a certain type of shoe slapping against the floor he was fairly sure it was either Sherlock or Mycroft.

"I thought you hated me.”

It was Sherlock.

John heard him move closer and presumably sit in a chair next to his bed, and the two sat in silence for a moment. John stopped himself from sighing when it became apparent that the detective wasn’t going to speak.

“I don’t hate you.” he answered.

“Yes, but I thought–”

“But I don’t.” John interrupted, making Sherlock go quiet.

“How’s your hand?” Sherlock asked after a few seconds.

“Burnt.” John replied. “But it doesn’t hurt much now.”

“And your head?”

“The same.”

“I didn’t realise you burnt that, too.” Sherlock said, a touch of worry in his tone.

“No, I meant it doesn’t hurt as much either.” John replied, unable to stop the small smile on his face.

“Oh.” Sherlock responded, and John could hear the relief in his voice.

"Are you alright?” he asked.

"Me?” the detective responded, sounding confused. “I’m absolutely fine, why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Well, because you thought I hated you, and that can’t have been a nice belief to have.”

He heard Sherlock sigh. “You’re not supposed to do this.”

“Do what?” John asked with a frown.

“Comfort me.” the younger man responded, sounding irritated for some reason. “That’s supposed to be my job.”

“Your job?” the doctor replied with a smile. “No, it’s not. I don’t need to be comforted.”

“You’re blind.”

“Yeah, but not fragile. It’s only temporary.”

“It’s still frightening.” Sherlock responded in a small voice. “And I should have made more of an effort to take care of you.”

John shifted uncomfortably, frowning slightly. He didn’t want Sherlock to have to take care of him, he wasn’t incapable, and Sherlock would have had more important things to do. Some of this must have shown on his face, because then Sherlock said,

“I know you’re an independent person, and you can more than easily take care of yourself, but nonetheless I’ve been a terrible friend these past few days, and I’m sorry for that.”

“Sherlock,” John began, but the detective spoke over him.

“Just… wait a minute,” he said, sounding frustrated. “Let me say this.”

“Okay.” John conceded, and he heard Sherlock take a breath.

“I’m not good with… people.” he began. “I can’t… I can read them, deduce them, but I can’t always… _understand_ them, does that make sense?”

John nodded.

“I thought you hated me for what happened, so I backed off. I didn’t mean to be distant, but it was my fault you lost your sight–”

“Sherlock–”

“No, it was.” the detective said firmly, and John quietened. “It was my fault and I’m sorry for being so reckless and thoughtless. Rarely have I felt so scared then when you told me you couldn’t see, and I cannot begin to imagine what you must have been feeling, and so I apologise for not… being here when you needed me. I will make it up to you, I… are you crying?... You’re laughing. You’re laughing at me.”

John laughed at the confused tone in Sherlock’s voice. “Not at you,” he smiled. “It’s just… I don’t know, I feel like we haven’t spoken in ages. It's nice to hear your voice.”

“We spoke last night.”

“Yeah, and I snapped at you. That wasn’t a proper conversation. This is.”

“Alright,” Sherlock responded, though he sounded unconvinced. John just shook his head, smiling.

“Never mind, it’s probably just the painkillers making me a bit loopy.” he said, and he was pleased to hear Sherlock huff out a laugh.

“I don’t hate you, by the way.” he repeated after a few moments. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that, I was just trying to back off in case you wanted to focus on catching Margaret Bailey’s killer.”

“Oh.” Sherlock replied, and John wondered what he was thinking.

“Any leads?” he prompted.

“One,” the detective answered. “A fellow politician was having an affair with her, so that seems a good place to start. I’ve planted an idea in her head, now I just have to wait to see if she’ll bite.”

“What have you done?” John asked, wondering if this new risk Sherlock had taken was going to give him a headache.

“Nothing illegal or dangerous.” Sherlock assured, sounding offended that John would even imply as much. “You remember the jewellery I believed Margaret possessed?”

“How could I forget?” John answered dryly.

“Well, when I visited Elizabeth Greenwold, who was having the affair with Margaret, she denied any knowledge of a piece of jewellery that might have been given to Margaret as a gift, but she was lying.”

“So?” John asked with a frown.

“So, I told her it was at Baker Street, and if she was lying about its existence, it stands to reason she’ll want it back. I only have to catch her at it and then I’ll get answers.”

"This jewellery is still hypothetical, isn’t it? I mean, you haven’t actually seen it, have you?”

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, and John could hear him fidget. “It’s not hypothetical.” he said in a huffy tone.

“It could be.” John teased.

“It’s not. Otherwise, what was Elizabeth Greenwold hiding? She was keen to get me out of the house after I mentioned it.” His tone sounded victorious.

“Maybe she’d realised she’d left something in the oven, and wanted to get it out before it burned, and you were slowing her down.”

"That’s preposterous.”

“Why is it?” John asked, fighting a smirk.

"It just is.”

John let out a short laugh, imagining the sulky look on his friend’s face, but then the reminder that he couldn’t see Sherlock wiped the smile away.

“I wish I could see you.” he muttered, fingering the blankets.

“Not long left.” Sherlock assured gently.

“I have to come back here tomorrow to get my eyes assessed.” John said.

“And then after that you’ll be sick of the sight of me and wishing for these bandages.” Sherlock said in a light voice, prompting a smile out of the doctor.

"Probably, yeah. Seeing only black is beginning to get boring, though.”

He felt a hand cover his. “Well, in the meantime, you can help me plan how I’m going to catch Elizabeth Greenwold in the act of stealing a piece of jewellery I don’t currently have.”

John frowned, remembering something. “Actually,” he said. “Lestrade mentioned something earlier about dropping a case file off at the flat when he found me. Maybe that file will have some info on this hypothetical jewellery.”

“It’s not hypothetical and you’re a genius, John.” Sherlock rushed out, sounding excited. “When are you back at Baker Street?”

“Later today, but you don’t have to pick me up, Greg insisted on taking me back.” he said in a sullen tone, but he couldn’t stay irritated for long. “And you don’t know when Elizabeth is going to act so you’d better get back now.” he added.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock sounded cautious and John smiled reassuringly.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll catch you later and I expect you to have this potentially-not-hypothetical piece of jewellery ready to show me.”

“That’s a deal.” Sherlock said, and John could hear the smile in his tone. “Goodbye, John.”

"Bye, Sherlock.”

* * *

Sherlock rushed up the stairs to the flat, excited to see what was in this case file Lestrade had left. He hoped there was something about this elusive jewellery that was _not_ hypothetical, and maybe it would provide more answers as to the circumstances of Margaret Bailey’s death. Elizabeth Greenwold was definitely involved, but Sherlock wasn’t convinced she had the potential to kill her lover.

He entered the flat and could spot the case file sitting on the table in the living room. What he was not expecting, though, was someone else to already be there.

It was not Mrs. Hudson.

It was not Lestrade.

It was not Elizabeth Greenwold.

Instead, it was _Mr_. Greenwold, looking very angry and clutching a locket in his hand.

 _At least I was right,_ Sherlock thought to himself, before Mr. Greenwold lunged at him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I am sooooo sorry for taking so long in uploading this chapter, a load of stuff suddenly happened and I never had time to write it, so sorry! Anyway, this is the last chapter; thank you to all who read it, and I hope you've enjoyed it! x

“Mr. Greenwold, if you could please remain calm, I’m sure we can sort this out.” Sherlock said coolly as he dodged another fist aimed for his face. “There really is no need for violence.”

“Shut up!” his assailant growled, pausing in his attack and breathing heavily. He was middle-aged with blond, curled hair and green eyes, protected by black, thick rimmed glasses. “How do you know who I am?”

"I saw a photo of you with your wife when I visited her this morning.” Sherlock replied.

“Where’s the locket?” Greenwold panted, stepping towards the detective, who took a step backwards. The two began to slowly circle each other.

“I don’t have it. It’s at Scotland Yard.”

“That’s not what Elizabeth said, and she wouldn’t lie to me.” Greenwold argued, and Sherlock could tell his temper was rising. He rushed towards the detective, but Sherlock grabbed his incoming fist and spun him away. Greenwold regained his balance and charged again with renewed vigour. Sherlock managed to grab his arms, though, and the two struggled against each other.

“So it was you, not your wife,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth. “Did you kill Margaret Bailey?”

“No!” Greenwold exclaimed, pushing forward with his arms, but Sherlock wouldn’t give.

Sherlock swept Greenwold’s feet with his own and the man fell as Sherlock released his grip on his arms.

“Let me guess.” Sherlock said, moving away from Greenwold. “You found out about the affair and told your wife to end it, or you’d kill Miss Bailey. Elizabeth refused, so you kept your word.”

“I didn’t kill her.” Greenwold growled, getting to his knees. “And you’ve got it wrong.”

“Then enlighten me.” Sherlock said, sidestepping as Greenwold lunged for his legs. “Stop this frankly pathetic attempt to subdue me and tell me what happened, otherwise you’ll have attempted murder added to your charges when the police arrest you.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Greenwold argued, standing up and glaring at Sherlock.

“Talk to me.” Sherlock reiterated. “It’s your best option.”

Greenwold continued to glare at him for a few more moments, his chest heaving, before he dropped his head. “Fine.” he conceded.

“Have a seat.” Sherlock gestured to the sofa, and Greenwold dropped down onto it.

“I found out about the affair, like you said.” Greenwold began. “And I asked Elizabeth to break it off, but I didn’t threaten her.”

“She refused.” Sherlock surmised, and Greenwold nodded.

"So I went to Margaret. She’s a friend of the family, so I guessed she’d be reasonable. She’d realise Elizabeth has a family and would agree to break up with her.”

“I’m assuming she didn’t.”

Greenwold sighed. “I didn’t know what to do. I love Elizabeth, I didn’t want to see her reputation get ruined because of some silly affair.”

“You don’t love me, Jacob. Not anymore.” Sherlock and Greenwold looked to the door to see Elizabeth stood there, staring at her husband with sadness and trepidation.

Greenwold shot to his feet. “I told you to stay at home.” he said in a low voice.

Elizabeth nervously tucked a strand of her ginger hair behind her ear. “No.” she said quietly, and moved further into the room. She glanced at Sherlock. “He’s lying to you.” she announced.

“About what?” Sherlock asked, keeping a watchful eye on Greenwold, who was glaring at his wife.

“After he realised threatening me wouldn’t work, he decided to threaten Margaret instead.” she said, her eyes glistening. “Said he would kill her if she didn’t break up with me.”

“You little bitch.” Greenwold lunged at her but she quickly dodged him, and Sherlock stepped forward to take her arm and pull her behind him. Greenwold turned to them both, based in front of the open door.

“She’s lying.” he accused. “How would you even know that?” He smirked in victory, his eyebrows raised as he waited for a response.

“I would say your reaction is giving yourself away.” Sherlock said, but Greenwold didn’t look at him; he continued to glower at Elizabeth, who moved to stand to the side of Sherlock.

“Margaret’s home office has a security camera in it.” she said, her tone hardening. “After you visited her, she sent me the recording. I watched your threaten her life, and then I watched you threaten mine.”

Sherlock looked at her. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

Taking his eyes off of Greenwold was his mistake. The man charged towards Elizabeth, his teeth bared, before Sherlock realised what was happening. Elizabeth yelped as Greenwold grabbed her hair and yanked her towards him, spinning her so that her back was to his chest.

“She didn’t go to the police,” Greenwold smiled, “because she still loves me. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” he asked her, whispering the last part into her ear.

“Maybe at the time, but not anymore.” she sneered, wincing as he tugged her hair. “You killed the other person I loved.”

I keep saying,” Greenwold snarled at her, his smile disappearing. “I didn’t kill her.”

"If not you, then who?” Elizabeth asked in a tone that showed she wasn’t convinced.

“She killed herself.” Sherlock answered.

Even Greenwold looked surprised as the couple turned to him. “What?” Elizabeth gasped.

“She committed suicide to protect you.” Sherlock said, internally disappointed that Lestrade had been right all along about this case being a suicide.

“See, I’m not guilty. I told you. Case closed.” Greenwold smiled. “I’ve done nothing wrong, the police can’t arrest me, so we’ll be going now.” He began to back away with Elizabeth in his grasp. “You tell the police, and I’ll kill you.”

“That’s three people you’ve threatened to kill now, which is, as a matter of fact, a criminal offence.” Sherlock said. “So yes, the police can arrest you, and they will.”

Greenwold shook his head, continuing to stumble backwards with Elizabeth. Before he could say anything, though, Sherlock smiled coldly.

“Not to mention how you set fire to Margaret’s home, clearly hoping to destroy the locket that would connect her to Elizabeth, and therefore you.” He began to advance on Greenwold, who had stopped and was staring at Sherlock with something akin to alarm. “Only, you didn’t destroy it, and instead your actions blinded my best friend. The same person who, though blind, has done an exceedingly good job of sneaking up on you. He’s directly three feet in front of you, John.”

There was a loud _crack_ , and Greenwold went down, letting go of Elizabeth – who rushed aside – to reveal John, brandishing his white cane like a sword.

“Thanks for the directions, Sherlock.” John smiled, and Sherlock chuckled.

"My pleasure. You caught him square on the head. Impressive.”

Behind John, Lestrade jogged up the stairs and entered 221B. He took one look at the man groaning on the floor and sighed.

“Y’know, John, they gave you that cane to help you get around, not to hit people with it.”

John turned to where he guessed the DI to be. “Hit him? Me? I did no such thing.”

“It’s true.” Elizabeth piped up. “Jacob just collapsed suddenly.”

“Hit his head on the floor, hence the blood.” Sherlock added. Lestrade did the wise thing and decided not to argue.

“Either way,” Sherlock said. “You caught your arsonist, congratulations.”

“Did he kill Margaret Bailey?” Greg asked.

“No, she committed suicide.” Elizabeth said quietly. “Because Jacob was threatening her. And me.”

“I see.” Lestrade said, looking down at Greenwold with a frown on his face. “Well, I can take him off your hands now.” He looked towards John, who was now sitting on the sofa. “Make sure you rest, John. That concussion can’t have left without giving you a headache.” John smiled and nodded in response, and Lestrade hauled Greenwold to his feet and dragged him down the stairs.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I’m sorry for lying, Mr Holmes.” she said. “Jacob made me stay quiet this past week, and now I wish I had spoken up sooner. Perhaps if I had, he wouldn’t have set her house on fire, and…” she trailed off, her gaze resting on John.

The doctor was able to guess what she was about to say, and he waved her off. “This had nothing to do with you.” he assured. “I’m blind because of your husband. And Sherlock.” he added.

“It’s true.” Sherlock supplied, linking his hands behind his back. “I was an idiot.”

Elizabeth smiled, clearly reassured. “I hope you get better soon, though.” she said to John. “And thank you for what you did. You might want to wash the blood off of your cane, by the way.”

“You couldn’t have said something before Lestrade came?” John asked Sherlock.

“I was preoccupied with making sure everyone was safe, John.” Sherlock argued.

“Like the hero you are.” Elizabeth smiled, stepping forward and shaking his hand. She moved over to John and gently put her hands on his shoulders before slowly leaning down to kiss his cheek, giving him enough time to move away if he wanted. He didn’t, though, and he smiled when he felt her kiss.

“Thank you both.” she reiterated, walking over to the door. “I’ll be sure to call the next time something like this happens."

* * *

Sherlock stood opposite John in the hospital room the following day, watching his friend tap his foot nervously from where he was seated on the edge of the bed. Lestrade was sat next to John while a Dr. Burke – who Sherlock didn’t know but John did – untied his bandages, and everyone remained silent as they waited for her to finish.

“Remember to keep your eyes closed, John, once these are off.” she said. “Don’t open them until I say.”

A minute later Dr. Burke placed the bandages on the bed and moved over to the wall, where she switched off the lights. There was only natural light flooding into the room now, from the window behind John.

Dr. Burke returned and stood next to Sherlock. “Alright, you can open your eyes now.”

John did it immediately, blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust to the perceived brightness of the room. Once his sight had adjusted, he looked up and stared dead into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I can see you.” he grinned. “You’re a bit blurry but it’s you.” Sherlock’s answering smile mirrored the intensity of his, and Lestrade responded to the statement by laughing in relief and clapping him on the shoulder.

“Excellent,” Dr. Burke said. “I’ll check your eyes in a bit once they’ve fully adjusted. I’ll be back in a few moments.” She exited the room, leaving the three men to rejoice in the good news.

“Thank God,” Lestrade smiled. “If Sherlock had to look after you for another day I would have feared for your life.”

John laughed, his gaze leaving Sherlock’s to look at Lestrade. “Well, I’m definitely making breakfast from now on, that’s for sure.”

“You could always teach me, John.” Sherlock responded.

"I’m pretty sure you know how to fry a few eggs, Sherlock, you just get too easily distracted to actually commit to it.” John was still smiling, and it was so infectious that the other two men couldn’t wipe the smiles off their faces because of it.

“At least Mrs Hudson can relax, now.” Lestrade said, and the others nodded.

“Right now, I want to go home and watch TV for the next week.” John said, looking around the hospital room.

“What are you going to watch?” Sherlock asked with a small frown. “Because I have a few ongoing experiments that require me to stay at home and if it’s something boring then–”

“I am going to watch whatever I want to, Sherlock.” John argued. “And if it happens to be Jeremy Kyle, then so be it.” His smile widened when he saw Sherlock groan and throw his hands in the air in despair.

“I wouldn’t argue if I were you.” Lestrade added. “John subdued a man without his sight-”

“Allegedly.” John interjected.

“John allegedly subdued a man without his sight, and that means you have no chance.”

Knowing his situation was dire, Sherlock headed for the door. “I’m staying at Mycroft’s for the week. Only contact me when there’s a case.” He failed to close the door properly on his way out, though that soon became a good thing as the sound of John’s laughter was more than enough to wash away the harrowing events that had occurred that past week.


End file.
